
m SONGS 




FIELD AN D F L () I) 



BY CHARLES T. BROOKS 



PRINTED FOR 

<*Ffjc EatiCes' JFair, <8)ccan %}<\l\, Xctojiort, H.Jf. 
August, 1853. 




BOSTON: 

PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON 

22, School-street. 

1853. 




SONGS 



FIELD AND FLOOD 

» 
\ 

BY CHARLES T. BROOKS. 



PRINTED FOR 



W&z HaUtes' ifatr, ©ceau 3^all, Netoport, 2&.X, 

August, 1353. 



BOSTON 






PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON, 

22, School Street. 

1853. 











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CONTENTS. 



Page 

Dying Speech of an Old Buttonwood . . 5 

Lines on leaving Mount Hope Bay . . . 17 

A Sabbath Morning at Pettaquamscutt . . 21 

Sunrise on the Sea, Coast 24 

An Indian-summer Noon on Rhode Island . 28 

Imagined Feelings op a Choctaw Indian . . 31 

Toll ! toll ! toll ! ...... 33 

"Alabama" 36 

The Great Pines 38 

Frost 40 

To the Pine 41 

On hearing Mendelssohn's Midsummer Night's 

Dream 43 

Sailor's Song 45 



DYING SPEECH OF AN OLD BUTTON- 
WOOD. 



The scene of the following piece is that most beautiful part of the 
Narragansett shore, in the State of Rhode Island, which was called by 
its first settlers, Boston Neck. It is a narrow strip of land stretching 
down toward the sea, with Narragansett Bay on the east, and separated 
from the main shore by Narrow (or, as the Indians called it, Pettaquam- 
scutt) River. 



As I sauntered alone one afternoon, 
In the bright and bloomy month of June, 
Over that beautiful farming land, 
Sloping away on either hand, 
Above the valley that opens to meet 
Blue Ocean's glance from its inland retreat, 
Where Pettaquamscutt placidly leads 
His noiseless wavelets along the meads ; 
2 



1 THE DYING SPEECH OF 

Now crossing with sinuous current the plain, 

To visit the corn-fields and waving grain ; 

Lingering now in a sheltered nook 

To meet some little tinkling brook, 

And bear it on to the waiting sea ; 

Then stealing along melodiously 

To kiss the foot of a lofty hill, 

That wears its olden majesty still, 

With craggy throne-couch upheaved on high, 

Where, under heaven's blue canopy, 

With something in his look, perchance, 

Of the stately Indian's noble glance, 

The Genius of the place might seem, 

In wakeful Fancy's noonday dream, 

To sit and gaze, with love and pride, 

On a landscape of beauty, far and wide : 

Not Tempe's vale more fair might be 

Than seemed at that hour that vale to me. 

Each bird was singing his joyous tune, 

And the waters gushed as they gush in June ; 



AN OLD BUTTON-WOOD. 

And the lawns were sparkling in emerald green, 

And a sapphire-sky hung over the scene, 

And all to the eye was summer there ; 

But a chill yet lingered in the air, 

And the cricket's monotone seemed to say, 

" The glory of Summer must vanish away, — 

Vanish away ! " and the hollow moan 

Of the fitful breeze had a plaintive tone ; 

And it seemed, though in the heart of June, 

Like the year's autumnal afternoon. 

In musing mood, as I paced along, 

Drinking each cadence of Nature's song, 

A sudden gust of the rising wind 

Disturbed the dream that entranced my mind ; 

And there came on my ear a startling cry, 

That rose to a shriek as the wind grew high ; 

Such a cry I never had heard before, 

And might almost wish to hear no more. 

Might such be the sound that the legend tells, 

Across the deep, at evening swells, — 



8 THE DYING SPEECH OF 

The dying wail of a proud and brave 

Old Indian tribe, that found a grave 

Beneath its waters, o'erwhelmed by foes ? 

Methinks the sound on my ear that rose 

Was a cry like that which the ghosts of the slain 

Might utter at night on some battle-plain, 

Where Liberty's mangled and bleeding form, 

Crushed down by the tyrant, lay throbbing and warm. 

Oh ! what and whence was that startling groan ? 

It was not old Ocean's ghostly moan, — 

That moan of a giant in hopeless pain, 

Still dragging shore-ward his endless chain. 

'Twas the groan of the aged Sycamore-trees 

That lifted, shuddering in the breeze, 

Their skinless arms, all suppliantly, 

Like beggars, to the gazing sky. 

As, in India, the traveller sees, 

Ranged in the streets, the devotees ; 

There, as if rooted to the ground, 

Their tattered garments hanging round, 



AN OLD BUTTON-WOOD. 

With stiff, stark features, wasted and grim, 

And bony hand and palsied limb, 

Stereotypes of agony, 

Petrifactions of misery, 

For mercy, mercy, they seem to cry ; 

So, these old gnarled and twisted forms, 

Long writhing and wrestling with wintry storms, 

Had yielded at last; and, half in despair, 

Half in defiance, stood rigid there, — 

Their hundred arms flung up on high, 

In scorn to the winds, and in prayer to the sky. 

For a century now, the Button- wood 
Around the orchard, a guard, had stood, 
To shield the young and tender trees 
From the rough, raw breath of the ocean-breeze ; 
And a faithful guard it still stood there ; 
But it lifted on high, in the upper air, 
To brave the onset of Winter grim, 
In empty defiance, each withered limb. 



10 THE DYING SPEECH OF 

Faithful and firm, the champion 

Still stood at his post ; but his life was gone. 

So when, 'mid terrible Russian snows, 

And still more terrible Cossack foes, 

The proud but wasted army of France 

Formed into square to repel the advance, 

With the noble guard of Napoleon 

For the outer line, — as the foe came on, 

They suddenly checked their steeds, and gazed 

In the Frenchmen's faces, as men amazed ; 

For they saw no stir there of muscle or breath, 

All was as rigid and still as death. 

And death was there : the mighty foe, 

That lays both conquered and conqueror low, 

Had sent in an instant his icy dart 

To the fountain of life in each soldier's heart. 

Each gun was levelled with deadly aim, 

But there burst from its muzzle no sulphurous flame 

The soldier flinched not, — but life had fled ; 

The finger swerved not, — 'twas frozen dead ! 



AN OLD BUTTON-WOOD. 1] 

And so the faithful old Button-wood, 
Even in death, still faithful stood ; 
Stretching abroad its mighty arm, 
As if to shelter its charge from harm. 
(Alas ! not one of them could repay 
The support it had lent to their youthful day !) 
For miles that skeleton form was seen, 
Towering up by the orchard green. 
And now, as I entered that lonely lane, 
There came on my ear a dirge-like strain ; 
As the rising wind grew loud and high, 
It swept through the branches a mournful sigh. 
'Twas a wild, a deep, and a soul-like thrill, 
As if the old tree were haunted still 
By the spirit that dwelt in its youthful frame, 
And the memories green of its early fame. 
And thus (in that pensive afternoon, 
So autumn-like in the heart of June), 
Blending with ocean's solemn roar, 
That rose and fell on the neighboring shore, 



12 THE DYING SPEECH OF 

I heard the death-groan of the Sycamore : 

" They are gone, — all gone," it seemed to say ; 

"They are all in their graves, and why should I 

stay? 
The stout old hands that planted me here 
Have been mouldering now for many a year. 
Their children and children's children I've seen 
Laid down in the shade of my branches green ; 
That stalwart race is gone from the land, 
And why should I any longer stand ? 
My royal equals, too, of the wood, 
Who in other days around me stood, — 
The motherly elm and the fatherly oak, — 
Have bowed to decay, or the woodman's stroke ; 
The poplar, the beech, and the dark-green ash, 
Have startled the fields with their farewell crash ; 
They have left me here in my solitude, 
O'er the memories of the past to brood, 
And over my present misery, 
A poor, old, naked, and useless tree ! 



AN OLD BUTTON-WOOD. 13 

I cumber the ground on which I stand, — 

I cast a gloom o'er the lovely land ; 

The birds, as they sing the charms of June, 

But mock me with their merry tune ; 

The meadow-rills, as they gaily pass, 

Singing and dancing through the grass, — 

The river, the valley, the sky and the hill, 

That wear their ancient freshness still, — 

The very look of the ocean-rock, 

Worn as it is by the billow's shock, 

Still sound in its true old granite heart, — 

All these a bitter pang impart. 

They speak of many a by-gone day, 

When I was as fresh and as fair as they ; 

When the breeze in my branches made pleasant tunes 

With the quivering leaves in golden Junes, 

And wearied Toil took his noonday rest, 

O'er-canopied here, on earth's green breast ; 

While the twinkling leaves and the sunny blue 

Of the laughing sky, that came peeping through, 



14 THE DYING SPEECH OF 

With their lights and shadows in mazy play, 
Dancing around him as he lay, 
Wove pleasant dreams for his weary brain, 
And sent him refreshed to his work again. 
Here, too, at evening, in happy chat, 
Parents and brothers and sisters sat, 
And thoughts of peace and contentment stole 
O'er the grateful heart and the reverent soul, 
As they saw the last gleamings of golden day, 
Through my leaves, o'er the hill-tops fade awaj 
And the moon, across the sparkling expanse 
Of ocean, through my foliage glance ; 
And the fire-fly's fitful and trailing light 
Hinted the treasures the Summer night 
Stored away in each mystic recess, 
Of bliss and glory and loveliness. 

" But why do I dwell on this painful theme, 
And taunt my grief with memory's dream ? 
Like a Titan chained to his desolate rock, 
For vultures to gnaw and winds to mock, 



AN OLD BUTTON-WOOD. 15 

Disgraced and dismantled I linger here, 

The ghost of myself from year to year ; 

And the only music that comforts me, 

In the day of this dismal calamity, 

Is the wail of the wind, and the sighing surge 

That breaks on the coast in an endless dirge, 

Like the sea of destiny rolling on, 

When hearts are broke and hopes are gone, — 

Like the mournful surge of memory 

Still bringing the wrecks of that sullen sea 

Up from the depths of the watery tomb, 

That the wretched may never forget his doom ! 

Again that cruel wind ! I shiver 

Like the shades of the dead on that gloomy river, 

Howling, unquiet, in endless pain, 

That their bodies unburied on earth remain, 

That none the funeral rites will pay — 

Oh, men that have hearts of flesh (I pray), 

That the woes of a poor old tree can feel, 

Come to my help with the merciful steel ! 



16 THE OLD BUTTON-WOOD. 

Come with your axes, and lay me low ! 
They are gone, and 'tis time I too should go. 
Build in the chimney my funeral pyre, 
And let me mount on wings of fire, 
To crown with deathless green the shore 
Where the fathers are gathered for evermore." 

Boston Neck, R.I., June, 1851. 



17 



LINES 



SUGGESTED ON COMING OUT OF MOUNT HOPE BAY. 



Mount Hope ! another name belongs to thee : 
Thou shouldst be called, methinks, Mount Memory. 
For, sailing by, this Indian Summer day, 
Where thou reclinest on thine own blue bay, 
Before my eyes King Philip's famed retreat, 
The crag-roof shelving o'er his royal seat, 
And, crowning all, the canopy of blue, 
Spanning the same wide-spread, enchanting view 
Of shore and slope, that, winding far away, 
Before the Sachem's eyes in beauty lay, — 
Gazing upon thee thus with tranquil eye, 
Calm hill ! untouched, as years and change sweep by ! 



18 LINES ON MOUNT HOPE BAY. 

In fancy-dreams thy rocky slope I climb, 
And pierce the dusky veil of long-gone time. 
The white men's homes, still few and far between, 
Melt in blue haze, and vanish from the scene. 
Slow curls the wigwam-smoke above the trees, 
And floats, a mimic cloud, upon the breeze. 
How beautiful is all around, — how still ! 
Save when the echoes, slumbering on the hill, 
Stir to the paddle's plash, where cuts the blue, 
Pushing from shore, the red man's swift canoe, 
Or start to hear the sudden shout and screech 
Of red men's children playing on the beach, 
Or fling back the light laugh of dusky girls 
Laving in some green nook their jet-black curls, 
Or multiply some friendly tribe's " What cheer ? " 
Or foeman's war-whoop frightful to the ear. 
Fair Mount ! how slight a change, and all again 
The self-same aspect wears to-day as then, 
"When in these scenes, sole lord of hill and plain, 
The son of Nature held his fair domain ! 



LINES ON MOUNT HOPE BAY. 19 

Gone are the eyes that drank with raptured gaze 
The light of this fair scene in other days ; 
The wigwam fire is out on shore and lull ; 
The council-talk — the whoop of war — are still. 
The paddle's frequent plash is heard no more ; 
All now is hushed, save when the booming oar 
Flings the bright spray, or sounds afar the scream 
Of wheeling sea-gull or imprisoned steam. 
Yet when, in such mild days as these, I stand, 
And look far out o'er all the lovely land, 
Through the soft haze, like Memory's veil, that lies, 
By Autumn's sunlight flung on earth and skies, 
Fair Indian maidens, gentle and serene, 
Look forth with spirit-eyes upon the scene ; 
And from the far horizon of the West, 
"Where lie the sunny islands of the blest, 
Hunter and fighter, sage and sachem, come 
To look once more upon their earthly home. 
The grave old men, the brave old warriors, stand, 
In stately talk, apart, a deep-eyed band ; 



20 LINES ON MOUNT HOPE BAY. 

While, to the music of the running rill, 
Low voices murmur music sweeter still. 

But soft ! the scene is fading from my view, 
And with it fades my fancy's vision too. 
In the dim distance, now, thy lovely slope, 
Transfigured, seems a skyey land, Mount Hope ! 
Rudely disturbed, my short day-dream is o'er ; 
And the fair shapes I saw just now, once more 
Have all withdrawn to upper air with thee, 
To dwell for ever, Mount of Memory. 



21 



A SABBATH MORNING AT PETTA- 
QUAMSCUTT. 



The Sabbath breaks — how heavenly clear ! 
Is it not always Sabbath here ? 
Such deep contentment seems to brood 
O'er hill and meadow, field and flood. 
No floating sound of Sabbath-bell 
Comes mingling here with Ocean's swell ; 
No rattling wheels, no trampling feet, 
Wend through the paved and narrow street 
To the strange scene where sits vain Pride 
With meek Devotion, side by side. 
And surely here no temple-bell 
Man needs, his quiet thoughts to tell 
3 



22 A SABBATH MORNING 

When he must rest from strife and care, 

And own his God in praise and prayer. 

For doth not Nature's hymn arise, 

Morn, noon, and evening, to the skies ? 

Is not broad Ocean's face — the calm 

Of inland woods — a silent psalm ? 

Ay, come there not from earth and sea 

Voices of choral harmony, 

That tell the peopled solitude 

How great is God, — how wise, — how good? 

In Ocean's murmuring music swells 

A chime as of celestial bells ; 

The birds, at rest or on the wing, 

With notes of angel-sweetness sing, 

And insect-hum and breeze prolong 

The bass of Nature's grateful song. 

Is not each day a Sabbath then, 

A day of rest for thoughtful men ? 

No idle Sabbath Nature keeps, 

The God of Nature never sleeps ; 



AT PETTAQUAMSCUTT. 23 

And in this noontide of the year, 
This pensive pause, I seem to hear 
God say : " O man ! would'st thou be blest, 
Contented work is Sabbath rest." 

Boston Neck, Sunday, Aug. 20, 1848. 



24 



SUNRISE ON THE SEA-COAST. 



It was the holy hour of dawn : 
By hands invisible withdrawn, 
The curtain of the summer night 
Had vanished ; and the morning light, 
Fresh from its hidden day-springs, threw 
Increasing glory up the blue. 
Oh sacred balm of summer dawn, 
When odors from the new-mown lawn 
Blend with the breath of sky and sea ; 
And, like the prayers of sanctity, 
Go up to Him who reigns above, 
An incense-offering of love ! 



SUNKISE ON THE SEA-COAST. 25 

Alone upon a rock I stood, 
Far out above the ocean-flood, 
Whose vast expanse before me lay, 
Now silver-white, now leaden-grey, 
As o'er its face, alternate, threw 
The rays and clouds their varying hue. 

I felt a deep, expectant hush 
Through nature, as the growing flush 
Of the red Orient seemed to tell 
The approach of some great spectacle, 
O'er which the birds, in heaven's far height, 
Hung, as entranced, in mute delight. 
But when the Sun, in royal state, 
Through his triumphal golden gate, 
Came riding forth in majesty 
Out from the flecked eastern sky, 
As comes a Conqueror to his tent ; 
And, up and down the firmament, 
The captive clouds of routed night, 
Their garments fringed with golden light, 



26 SUNRISE ON THE SEA-COAST. 

Bending around the azure arch, 

Lent glory to the victor's march ; 

And when he flung his blazing glance 

Across the watery expanse, — 

Methought, along that rocky coast, 

The foaming waves, a crested host, 

As on their snowy plumes the beams 

Of sunshine fell in dazzling gleams, 

Thrilled through their ranks with wild delight, 

And clapped their hands to hail the sight, 

And sent a mighty shout on high 

Of exultation to the sky. 

Now all creation seemed to wake ; 
Each little leaf with joy did shake; 
The trumpet-signal of the breeze 
Stirred all the ripples of the seas ; 
Each in its gambols and its glee 
A living creature seemed to be ; 
Like wild young steeds with snowy mane, 
The white waves skimmed the liquid plain ; 



SUNRISE ON THE SEA-COAST. 27 

Glad Ocean, with ten thousand eyes, 
Proclaimed its joy to earth and skies ; 
From earth and skies a countless throng 
Of happy creatures swelled the song : 
Praise to the Conqueror of night ! 
Praise to the King of Life and Light ! 

Newport, July, 1851. 



28 



AN INDIAN SUMMER NOON ON RHODE 
ISLAND. 



Yes, Isle of Peace ! I know thee now, — 
Such grace and glory on thy brow ; 
Such lustre in thy glowing eye, 
Born of the broad blue sea and sky ; 
Such health and beauty on thy cheek, 
And grace of form no tongue can speak ! 
In richest robes of russet hue, 
Veiled in thin mists of softest blue, 
With lingering summer-green, and gold 
Of sunshine flung on every fold, — 
Amidst the Indian-summer haze 
Of these benign autumnal days, 



SUMMER NOON ON RHODE ISLAND. 29 

Thou standest, lovely and serene, 

A noble, maiden Indian Queen ! 

The very soul of beauty seems 

To fill thy face with waking dreams. 

The smile of Heaven, — how soft and still 

It rests on field and wood and hill ! 

Such noontide stillness far and near, 

The silence whispers to my ear. 

I seem to see the gentle ghosts 

Of forms that long since roamed these coasts ; 

The plash of paddles sounds once more, 

That died, years gone, along yon shore. 

'Tis now the season when the wild 

Yet tender heart of Nature's child 

In yon far Western halo saw, 

With yearning love and holy awe, 

The light of that unfading shore, 

Where dwell the dead who die no more. 

Ah ! Heaven is nearer now, meseems, 

Than 'twas to them in autumn dreams ! 



30 SUMMER NOON ON RHODE ISLAND. 

Does not a Father's loving eye 

Look down on me from yon blue sky ? 

In yon rich hues I trace his hand, — 

His step is on this lovely land : 

Where'er I rest, where'er I roam, 

'Tis heaven on earth, — my Father's home! 



31 



IMAGINED FEELINGS OF A CHOCTAW 
INDIAN. 



Supposed to be spoken by a Choctaw Indian, who sat, wrapped in 
his blanket, on a burnt trunk of a tree, in a pine wilderness, watching 
the cars go by on the newly commenced Mobile and Ohio Railroad, Feb. 
12, 1852. 



Dash on, thou bellowing buffalo ! 

The monster with the glaring eyes, 
That, lightning-snorting, hurriest so, 

While back the affrighted forest flies. 
Speed, Pale-face, speed thy fiery car ! 

Its roar and rumbling seem to me, 
As on it clatters fast and far, 

The thunder-tramp of destiny. 



32 FEELINGS OP A CHOCTAW INDIAN. 

Ay, well I hear in that harsh roar, 

That crashes through the forest-space, 
The bolt of doom for evermore 

Fall, crushing, on the red man's race. 
Farewell, ye noble hunting grounds, 

Farewell, ye haunts and homes of ours ! 
The white man, with his iron hounds, 

A howling pack, our purlieu scours. 

Like this burnt trunk I sit upon, 

Our race, in still and sure decay, 
Is crumbling fast — 'twill soon be gone, 

And leave no trace behind, for aye ! 
Then, monster, dash along thy track 

Through Indian grounds, o'er Indian graves ! 
Fate's iron chariot rolls not back, — 

We seek, sun ! the western waves ! 



33 



TOLL! TOLL! TOLL 



As I was passing down the Potomac one rainy forenoon on my jour- 
ney southward, absorbed in Kossuth's Birmingham speech, suddenly the 
boat began to slacken her speed, and toll her bell faintly and slowly, and 
I found we were passing along by Mount Vernon. The impression pro- 
duced I hare feebly recorded in the following lines. 



Toll ! toll ! toll ! 
O'er Potomac's placid wave 
To Mount Vernon's hallowed grave, 
Let the solemn pealings roll ! 

Toll! toll! toll! 
For to-day fair Nature weeps 
Where the sainted hero sleeps ; 
Toll! toll! 



34 TOLL ! TOLL ! TOLL ! 

Toll! toll! toll! 
Not for him who lies at rest 
On Mount Vernon's sheltering breast, 
With Freedom's God his soul ! 

Toll! toll! toll! 
Not for bleeding Hungary, 
Who, though prostrate, still is free 
In her soul ! 

Toll! toll! toll! 
Not for holy Justice fled, — 
Not for sacred Honor dead, — 
Oh not yet — not yet — my soul ! 

Toll! toll! toll! 
For our land's and freedom's sake, 
That solemn thoughts may wake, 

All vain ones to control ! 



toll! toll! toll! 35 

Thoughts of him — the noble soul — 
Who from yonder silent shore 
Speaks peace for evermore, 
Bidding angry strifes give o'er — 
Slowly toll! 

Mobile, Dec. 16, 1851. 



"ALABAMA!" 



There is a tradition, that a tribe of Indians, defeated and hard 
pressed by a more powerful foe, reached in their flight a river, where 
their chief set up a staff and exclaimed, "Alabama! " a word meaning, 
" Here we rest," which from that time became the river's name. 



Bruised and bleeding, pale and weary, 

Onward toward the South and "West, 
Through dark woods and deserts dreary, 

By relentless foemen pressed, 
Came a tribe where evening, darkling, 

Flushed a mighty river's breast ; 
And they cried, their faint eyes sparkling, 

" Alabama ! Here we rest ! " 



" ALABAMA." 37 

By the stern steam-demon hurried, 

Far from home and scenes so blest ; 
By the gloomy care-dogs worried, 

Sleepless, houseless, and distressed, 
Days and nights beheld me hieing 

Like a bird without a nest, 
Till I hailed thy waters, crying, 

" Alabama ! Here I rest ! " 

Oh ! when life's last sun is blinking 

In the pale and darksome West, 
And my weary frame is sinking, 

With its cares and woes oppressed, 
May I, as I drop the burden 

From my sick and fainting breast, 
Cry, beside the swelling Jordan, 

" Alabama ! Here I rest ! " 

Alabama River, Dec. 1851. 



38 



GREAT GOVERNMENT STREET PINES. 



" The trees of the Lord are full of sap." 



Great Pines of God ! and are not ye 

As full of sap as any tree, 

By Psalmist praised of old, that stood 

On Lebanon for holy wood, — 

Fir, box, or cedar, lifting there 

Their stately heads in upper air, 

And waiting each to bow his crown 

At God's command, and hasten down 

His holy temple-courts to grace, 

And make his feet a beauteous place ? 

Where shall a holier place be found 

Than this, God ! thy wide earth round ? 



THE GREAT PINES. 39 

Thy step, unseen, this turf hath pressed ; 
All Nature breathes thy spirit's rest, — 
The rest of action, calm and free, 
The rest of blissful harmony. 
The thoughtful, grateful, pious mind 
Thy temple here, O Lord ! may find, 
And list thy praises in the breeze, 
Hymned by the priesthood of the trees. 

Mobile, Feb. 10, 1852. 



40 



FROST. 



Lo ! on the roofs yon frost of silver-white, 
By fairy fingers spread, that moonlit night ! 
Silver-lipped frost ! bring'st thou not prophecy 
Of golden, glowing, joyous days to be ? 
Come once more to my bosom, halcyon days 
That clothe the earth in such enchanting haze ; 
More than prophetic of approaching Spring, 
That make my heart leap up and dance and sing ; 
O come, and make it heaven on earth awhile, 
And let me live, a child, in Nature's smile ! 

Mobile, Jan. 27, 1852. 



41 



TO THE PINE. 



O tall old Pine ! old gloomy Pine ! 
Old grim, gigantic, gloomy Pine ! 
What is there in that voice of thine 
That thrills so deep this heart of mine ? 

Is it that, in thy mournful sigh, 
Old years and voices long gone by, 
And feelings that can never die, 
Come crowding back on memory ? 

Is it that, in thy solemn roar, 
My listening spirit hears once more 
The trumpet-music of the host 
Of billows round my native coast ? 



42 TO THE PINE. 

Or is it that I catch a sound 
Of that more vast and dread profound, 
The soul's unfathomable sea, — 
The ocean of Eternity ? 



43 



LINES 



ON HEARING MENDELSSOHN S MIDSUMMER NIGHT S DREAM 
PERFORMED BY THE GERMANIANS AT NEWPORT. 



It haunts me still — I hear, I see, once more 
That moonlight dance of fairies on the shore. 
I hear the skipping of those airy feet ; 
I see the mazy twinkling, light and fleet. 
The sly sharp banter of the violin 
Wakes in the elfin folk a merry din ; 
And now it dies away, and all is still ; 
The silver moon-beam sleeps upon the hill ; 
The flute's sweet wail, a heavenly music, floats, 
And like bright dew-drops fall the oboe's notes. 
And hark ! again that light and graceful beat 
Steals on the ear, of trooping, tiny feet, — 



44 LINES. 

While, heard by fits across the watery floor, 

The muffled surf-drum booms from some far shore ; 

And now the fairy world is lost once more 

In the grand swell of ocean's organ-roar, — 

And all is still again ; — again the dance 

Of sparkling feet reflects the moon-beam's glance ; 

Puck plays his antics in the o'erhanging trees, — 

Music like Ariel's floats on every breeze ; — 

Thus is the Midsummer Night's Dream to me, 

Pictured by music and by memory, 

A long midsummer day's reality. 



45 



SAILOR'S SONG. 



The following is the translation of a German Song, sung by the Ger- 
manians at Newport, in the summer of 1849. 



Hark ! a merry Sailor's song ! 

Ho-ee-ho ! 
Sound it loud the sea along ! 

Ho-heave-o ! 
Now to Northern shores I sing, 
Now the South shall hear it ring ; 
Overboard all care we fling ! 

When the sea is bellying rough, 

Ho-ee-ho ! 
I my pipe-smoke at him puff, 

Ho-heave-o ! 
5 



/ 



46 sailor's song. 

Fish in sunshine leap and gleam, 
Sharks behind us swim the stream, 
And the sea-gulls wildly scream. 

When the tempests make her creak, 

Ho-ee-ho ! 
Up I climb the top-mast peak, 

Ho-heave-o ! 
" Cheer up, Captain ! " then I cry, 
" Winds are fair, I see blue sky ; 
Let the gallant streamers fly ! " 

One thing clouds a Sailor's bliss, 

Ho-ee-ho ! 
Ah, I pine for Peggy's kiss ! 

Ho-heave-o ! 
Thinking when the tempests blow 
On that bosom's lily-snow, 
True love racks my heart with woe ! 



sailor's song. 47 

Ah, but when the port is nigh, 

Ho-ee-ho ! 
And I see her bright black eye, 

Ho-heave-o ! 
Oh, so wild that glance of bliss, 
After such a long, long miss, — 
Ten thousand times my Peg I kiss ! 



THE END. 



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